


In Life and Death

by VTsuion



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Afterlife, Death from Old Age, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson Dies, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sad and Sweet, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sherlock Holmes Dies, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2021-01-24 13:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21338890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VTsuion/pseuds/VTsuion
Summary: All good things must come to an end. And so, as an old man, Watson dies in his Sussex home, Holmes by his side. But death is not quite the end.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	In Life and Death

The long afternoon wore on. Outside, the cold winter sun sat in a clear blue sky, shining on the clean white snow that had fallen the previous night. The icy blanket was untouched hold for a set of footprints leading from a carriage waiting in the street, up to the small cottage, surrounded by a field of sleeping beehives.

Inside, a tall, thin old man, by the name of Sherlock Holmes, reclined in a brown leather chair in front of the fireplace that brought much needed warmth to the room already illuminated from outside. The man's usually sharp eyes were dull with worry as he stared at the fire. It burned hypnotically, dancing amidst the logs, but the man did not see it, lost in thought. They were old, him and Watson both, but still, he could barely believe that his beloved friend had fallen so terribly ill after all these years.

They had long since retired to the country, left retirement to serve their country in the Great War, and returned to live out the remainder of their already plentiful years together. It had not been so long since Watson had last joined him in one of their many outings to the beach. They swam in the clear blue water and lunched on the sandy shore, with much chatter and laughter between them.

And then Watson had fallen ill. At first they had thought it was nothing, just a cold, but Watson's condition deteriorated, and at last Holmes declared it time to fetch a doctor. But then a blizzard struck, and so they waited. In the end, it was a miracle he had managed to find a doctor willing to brave the snow to see to an old man whose days were already numbered.

"Mr. Holmes" - the doctor's voice awoke the former detective from his reverie.

"Yes?" Holmes replied, turning to face the young man, recently arrived in the country, formerly of a London practice.

"It's too late," he said apologetically. "I doubt he'll make it to evening, let alone through the night. I'm sorry."

That was it. The end. Holmes couldn't believe it. Watson had lived through so much, only to die now of sickness. It was ironic at best. Still, Watson was not dead yet. There was still a chance- a chance to say goodbye. He supposed he was fortunate to have the opportunity to share a few last words, but he didn't feel fortunate.

The old man forced himself from the chair with waning strength, and strode into the master bedroom, closing the door behind him – a habit born of necessity. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the little light that crept past the heavy curtains that covered the windows and shone from a small lantern on the nightstand. The room was over-warm and stuffy, but Holmes paid it no heed.

All he saw was the familiar figure lying in their bed. They had spent countless nights there, but still, Sussex was not home, not like Baker Street had been even though they had never actually owned their flat there. For a moment Holmes remained still, as if frozen in place by some unknown force. Sharp grey eyes fixed on warm blue ones.

Finally, Holmes broke the heavy silence. "Good afternoon, my dear friend," he said.

"Good afternoon," Watson replied with a slight smile and a voice hoarse from sickness. "Do have a seat,” he said, always a gentleman, and motioned to a spot on the bed.

Holmes sat where he was bid. Watson tried to sit up, but Holmes stopped him with a hand on his chest. "Don't strain yourself."

"Holmes, I'm almost gone, there's not much more damage that can be done," Watson said with a weak chuckle, but listened all the same.

"I know, I know." Holmes let out a sigh.

For some time they sat in silence, merely savoring what was left of the other's company. Suddenly, Watson shifted in bed and propped himself up on an elbow. Holmes moved automatically to support him.

Watson looked straight into Holmes eyes, his expression serious, as he spoke. "Don't miss me too much."

Holmes stared back. "You know I cannot promise..."

"I know." There was another long pause. "I suppose one can only cheat death for so long... It's been an honor."

"The honor is all mine," Holmes replied, before leaning in for one last kiss.

It was warm and sweet, and kind of clumsy, but above all else, it was undeniably _ theirs _. Arms wrapped around each other in a tender embrace.

They did not break apart until Watson's heart shuddered in his chest and stopped. It was then that Holmes bent over his friend and cried.

_ Watson sat up, leaving a broken body behind, as Holmes laid it neatly on the bed. He felt younger, stronger than he had in a long, long time, but there were more important, more pressing matters at hand than his newfound strength. There was Holmes, his beloved Holmes, weeping, sobbing, at his side. _

"_No! Don't cry!" He exclaimed. "Please, do not mourn me. I am here, I am well." _

_ But he knew Holmes would not be able to hear him, for as much as he did not feel it, he was dead. He reached out an arm, in an attempt to comfort his friend, his partner, his love, but his hand went right through, sending a shiver down both their spines. _

_ Suddenly, an impulse, of which he could not divine the source, struck him, and he looked up. Standing in the corner of the room was an indescribably beautiful androgynous figure with long golden hair, dressed in pure white robes framed by snowy wings. It stood on but one leg. _

"**_Follow me,_ ** _ " the angel said – for in that instant Watson _ knew _ what it was. _

"_No!" He replied before he could stop himself. "I cannot leave him!" _

"**_We cannot remain here. I will take you somewhere where we can wait for his time to come, so he can join you._**_" _

_ Watson nodded in consent, despite his uncertainty. _

The world began to fade around them until Watson found himself in a pocket of empty white space. On one end there was a window into what he knew to be Earth. He raced over to it and found that he could see Holmes.

_ Holmes still sat on the bed, holding Watson's lifeless hand. Tears flowed from his eyes, but he did not weep as he had before. After a moment, the door swung open and the young doctor quietly entered. He exchanged a few words with Holmes, too soft to be heard, and helped the old man from the stuffy room. _

"Where is this?" Watson asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the world of the living.

"**Between heaven and Earth,**" was the soft, melodious reply.

* * *

_ Holmes followed the simple casket, carried by men who worked at the funeral home. He and two other friends of Watson's were the only people who would mourn him. It was a shame. Watson was a great man, he deserved more in death. The ceremony was short and simple, but as Holmes watched his dearest friend being lowered into the ground, he could not help but cry once more. _

"**You must be a great man,** " the angel remarked, " **to be loved so.**"

"I am but his biographer and assistant, Holmes is the great one," Watson replied.

* * *

_ Holmes sat in the living room, scraping away at his violin. A solemn tune, invented on the spot, echoed from the fragile instrument. He had often played there, Watson in the other chair writing or reading or just listening as Holmes poured his thoughts and emotions through music. They did not need to talk to enjoy one another's presence, not that Holmes had quieted much over the long years. He smiled a small sad smile. He knew that he did not have too much longer. _

Holmes would join him soon, that Watson knew. It was bittersweet, the idea of seeing Holmes again, mixed with the knowledge that it would come with the great detective's death. And then what? Once they were together, they would go wherever they were destined. They, sinners under god... and the angel knew. It hit him with terrifying suddenness.

He turned to face the angel for the first time since his arrival in the white, empty space between. "Please," he begged it, "Holmes is a great man! He has saved many lives! It is his only sin! Please take me in his stead! Allow me to fulfill both our punishments!"

The angel gave him a look of perfect confusion. "**You have killed, but paid your dues in life. Sherlock Holmes has done no wrong and much good, we are greatly indebted to him.**"

It was Watson's turn to be confused. "Relations between men," he attempted to explain, "They- they're prohibited..."

"**Love is no crime here.**"

"Thank you," Watson said, lightheaded with disbelief. A wide smile of relief spread across his face as he turned back to the window.

* * *

_ It neared midnight one day in early spring. The room they had once shared was dark. Holmes slept peacefully, his chest rose and fell with every breath he took. His heart pounded steadily, propelling the red liquid of life through his body. Suddenly he took in a sharp breath, gasped for air, and fell still. He moved no more. _

"**It is time,**" the angel said.

_ The white void faded back into the rich dark colors of Earth until Watson was there, standing beside Holmes's dead body in the home he had once shared. He remembered the first time Holmes had "died," fallen off a cliff for all Watson knew, taking criminal mastermind James Moriarty with him. But Holmes hadn't died then and they had been reunited three years later. In a way, this was the same, wasn't it? It was just Watson who had died first, and it was on the other side that they met once more. _

_ Holmes's spirit sat, detaching itself from the body it had long been tied to. For an instant, his eyes met Watson’s. Then Holmes – young and fit as ever – threw himself from the bed and they warmly embraced. _

"_It is good to see you again, old friend," Watson said, holding tightly onto Holmes. _

"_Yes, it is," Holmes replied. _

**Author's Note:**

> This is by far the best of my older fics. It took be by surprise when I edited it a little bit for cross-posting in 2019, and I hope you enjoyed it as well!


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